It is not you, no, madam, whom I love,Nor you either, Juliet, nor you,Ophelia, nor Beatrice, nor that dove,Fair-haired Laura with the big eyes; No.
She is in China whom I love just now;She lives at home and cares for her old parents;From a tower of porcelain she leans her brow,By the Yellow River, where haunt the cormorants.
She has upward-slanting eyes, a foot to holdIn your hand .- that small; the colour shedBy lamps is less clear than her coppery gold;And her long nails are stained with carmine red.
From her trellis she leans out so farThat the dipping swallows are within her reach,And like a poet, to the evening starShe sings the willow and the flowering peach.
